She Hasn't Washed Her Hair Since Moab

 She hasn't washed her hair

since Moab. She's sick
of all her clothes, dull and drab.

Phoenix might change her luck--
you never know. Or it might cook
her brain with its unholy heat.

West is her dominion. Tacoma,
Oakland, Reno, Tonapah, Needles....
High mountains, mesas, plateaus.

Her rebuilt 1970s Ford--
it's her favorite friend, grumbling
like a big hungry lion.

She hasn't washed her hair
since Moab. She'll get that done
tonight in some damp motel.

Rest for a day in rough sheets,
get back on the road, and find
a job. Might be some form

of love in whatever town. You
never know. Or actually, you do.
That psychic in Sedona said so.

hans ostrom 2024

"Youth Isn't Wasted on the Youth," by Hans Ostrom

Youth's not wasted on the youth. They
seem to know just what to do with it.

Autumn, which they call Fall, generates
fine light that shines on the longest
hair most college women will have in
their lives; or the shortest. College men

have more friends now than they will
later, after work, ambition, and lore
deliver betrayal and failure.

Youth is interested in itself. Sure, it's
part echo, part narcissism. But it's also
bursting with sympathy and verve.
Eyes bright, smiles broad.

Young people know they know they're young
and would laugh big to be asked to think
otherwise. Old people over-think.

They whittle dry adages, and their shirts
look weird untucked: young, you can make
that look work. Young people

don't waste any time. Or they waste
a lot of time because of that luscious
youthful languor, which I kind of recall.
Anyway, it's early October, which is a country
for old men and every kind of people. Youth
is a team to cheer for; that's all.


hans ostrom

"Lucretia Borgia's Hair," by Walter Savage Landor

Getting Old: An Introduction

You'll admit you always had the illusion
you were almost hip, sort of with-it, and
you'll admit that you never were and that
you're now completely out of step. Bones

and muscles will ache as easily as they used
not to. To the extent you had personal enemies,
they'll either be dead now or seem
ludicrous--like you.  Hair

will have grown in places you hadn't
imagined hair could grow, as in  for example
the inside of your ears. By turns, you'll want
to cry out "Leave me alone!" and "Please

notice me!" If the young notice you,
they'll look through you. Lust won't leave
you. It will just badger you and make
you seem creepy. In fact, this is a country

for old men and women.  The problem
is simply that age doesn't earn you anything
special, and pneumonia's always
out there, waiting like a burglar,

and nobody cares what you know.


Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom